When It Rains
by Rynn Abhorsen
Summary: She gets home when driving around Vegas can't help her avoid him any more. She hopes what she's going to say to him won't end this...NickSara


**A/N: **I really, really like this piece, and I hope you do, too!

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"When it Rains" 

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She gets home when driving around Vegas can't help her avoid him any more.

Her purse clatters on the table near the door and the TV's on and not for the first time she wonders when things got to be so normal. Her footsteps lead her to the couch and she finds him sprawled out, one leg and one arm hanging off, a dog-eared book on his chest, and his eyelashes are fanned out and she wonders if he needs any other job than being beautiful. She sits on the edge of the coffee table, slowly removing her jacket, slipping out of one sleeve, then the other. It slithers to the floor and she knows he can't have heard it, but he is stirring into consciousness all the same.

"Hey." The word twines around her head like smoke, floating through the air as if it should be inconsequential, but it's not. His hand peeks out from underneath the navy blue fleece blanket he's wrapped in, and he slowly takes hold of hers. His eyes widen a bit when skin meets skin, and she knows he's worried about how cold and pale she is. Sitting up, the blanket joins her jacket on the floor and he's holding both of her hands between his own, trying in his own sweet way to warm them. She breathes softly, an almost gasp, when he brings them to his face, kissing them both, first on the palms, then on each finger. He starts with her right hand, the thumb, the way she knew he would. He gets to the left and eventually his lips meet the golden band on her ring finger. She wishes she could wear her engagement ring but it would cut through the latex gloves. She knows he knows, knows he understands.

"It's raining," she supplies, trying to convince him and convince herself that her hands are cold and her eyes are red and her face is wet simply because of the storm, not because of something else.

"I know," he replies, slowly releasing his hold on her hands and she wishes in a little part of herself that it could last forever, though she learned a long time ago that forever is a myth. He stands up from the couch, stretching. "I wasn't planning on sleeping, but the rain just knocks me out," he says, offering up his own explanation. She knows that his excuse is true and wishes she could say the same.

He wanders into his kitchen, though it's really their kitchen since they received this house as a wedding present from his parents. She protested at the time, saying it was too much and that a fondue set would be just fine. He protested as well, but his parents were not to be swayed. They were a family of considerable means and he was the baby of that family, the last to get married. She stopped protesting then, knowing that he had gone through more than she knew and that the love of his family had saved him. Living in a sign of that love would not be a bad thing.

He walks out of the kitchen carrying two cups, both full of coffee. She raises an eyebrow at this, looking at the mugs he bears and then at the clock. It is, after all, a bit late for coffee. She hopes the time might keep him from serving it, because she knows it will be hard to explain why she won't drink coffee anymore.

He says her name and she hears it as if it must cross mountains to reach her. She doesn't respond right away, even though she knows she should. She doesn't take the cup of coffee he's offering out to her, offering like he's offered love and family and hope, offering like he's done so many times.

"Thanks," she whispers, and she knows that the endgame is coming soon, and all she can do is wait, like she's been waiting for a couple weeks. She knows. The cup is warm between her hands, warm and smooth and deep and she nurses it like one would nurse a cup of whiskey. She nurses it like she will need to nurse in a few months, like she's getting in practice now.

She doesn't take a sip, though, simply staring into the light brown, swirling depths. He sits next to her on the couch, taking a long drink of the hot liquid. She leans a bit, letting her head just barely rest, feather-light, on his shoulder and she can feel his heart beat like a drum and she knows he really does wear it on his sleeve. Sometimes she wishes she did, too.

The TV is still on and they watch the evening news and she prays his focus will stay on the smiling anchorwoman instead of her still full coffee cup. It's the first time she prayed in awhile. Praying sort of lost its novelty when she was about six, when she realized that no matter how much she wanted the nightmare she called home to end, it wouldn't. It didn't end for a long time and when it did she wasn't sure which was worse.

She hopes what she's going to say to him won't end this.

He drains the last of his coffee cup and takes it back to the kitchen and from her spot in the living room she can hear the rattle-clank of the dishwasher tray when he slides it in, now with another cup to wash. Sometimes she wishes they had washers like that for souls.

He sits down next to her again and she lays her head on his lap, staring up at his warm, honey-brown eyes and she hopes the love in them will never leave. He shuts the TV off and there's silence, or something close to it. The drying machine is rattling down the hall, the rain is puttering on the roof and he's breathing slowly, calmly, and that reminds her, she should be breathing, too.

A giant inhale later and the sides of his mouth curl up. "I was wondering when you would notice that you needed to take a breath," he says, running his fingers through her hair that is splayed out across his legs. She smiles slowly, privately, at the sensation and the thought that she wonders when he'll notice that she wants to, needs to tell him something.

"Nick."

"Sara."

His eyes are on hers now, now that they've named each other. Her eyes are filling with water and she blinks the tears back, pushes them back like she's pushing away the fear and the excitement and the apprehension. She pushes it away and tries to focus on the now.

She sees worry bloom in his eyes when a few tears escape at the edges, trailing down the sides of her face and making darkish ovals on his denim jeans. "Nick," she says in a voice that is half sob, half gulp.

There is the question in his eyes and the answer in hers.

"Nick, we're going to have a baby."

**FIN  
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A/N: **Reviews make me all warm and fuzzy.


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